When Life Gives You Lemons — Wait, Are They Really Lemons?
My dad’s eyes widened in terror.
I was sitting across from him, a precocious, talkative twelve year old, suddenly silenced by a big, partially chewed piece of bread. Mid sentence, it stuck in my esophagus, and a moment later I felt like a shaken soda, ready to explode. Where did all my air go?
My dad acted. He’s a doctor, lucky for me, and swung around to my side of the table before I knew what was going on, hoisting me up by my chest. He reached around me and pumped his fist. I’d never seen the Heimlich in person, let alone from the test dummy’s perspective.
One jolt, pulsing through my entire body, shaking me like a doll. Two jolts, and… the chunk of bread shot out my gaping mouth like a cork from a champagne bottle. I stuttered for a moment, and then took a big breath of wonderful, life-giving air.
There’s a story about luck, told by Alan Watts in Tao: The Watercourse Way (1975). One day, a farmer’s horse ran off. The neighbors remarked on his bad luck, but the farmer simply replied, “May be.”
The next day the horse returned, but brought with it six wild horses, and the neighbors came exclaiming his good fortune. He said, “May be.”
And then, the following day, his son tried to saddle and ride one of the wild horses, was thrown, and broke his leg. Again the neighbors came to offer their sympathy for the misfortune. He said, “May be.”
The day after that, conscription officers came to the village to seize young men for the army, but because of the broken leg the farmer’s son was rejected. When the neighbors to say how fortunately everything had turned out, he said, “May be.”
Lemons. Life sometimes hands them to you. One minute you’re having a pleasant conversation. The next you can’t breath, seconds away from shuffling off this mortal coil, all due to a hastily swallowed piece of sourdough. A dreadful experience, but, as a result, a bond formed that will never be broken between my dad and me. He saved my life.
Seventeen years later, I think about chewing a lot. Especially when I’m alone. My brush with death turned me into a competent eater — something I had to learn the hard way.
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